


pretty girl

by akechi_goro_love_machine



Category: Jrock, X JAPAN
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt No Comfort, Internalized Transmisogyny, Internalized Transphobia, Other, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29243673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akechi_goro_love_machine/pseuds/akechi_goro_love_machine
Summary: It’s a good day when Yoshiki can look at his old pictures without wanting to rip his own guts out.It's 3 am in the morning, and Hayashi Yoshiki is not having a good time.
Relationships: past hide/Yoshiki (X JAPAN)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	pretty girl

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few things to get out of the way. 
> 
> 1: This is not meant to be any sort of speculation on the real-life gender identities of anyone mentioned or included in this fic. This is just the work of one trans person on the internet making a piece of creative fiction. 
> 
> 2: Please, for the love of God, read the tags. Yoshiki is not nice to themself in this one, and make sure you're okay with everything in there. 
> 
> 3: This is just as much a piece of vent art as it is a piece of creative fiction, so I am asking that you please not be a dick in the comments.

It’s a good day when Yoshiki can look at his old pictures without wanting to rip his own guts out. 

God, he hates it. He hates looking at it, at that stupid little faggot playing at being a woman, playing at something it could never be, the shape of its face so  _ utterly  _ mannish, even under the layers of makeup and those  _ thigh-highs,  _ Jesus  _ fucking  _ Christ, how could he have been so utterly fucking delusional to think that he even so much as had a chance of looking like anything other than another delusional faggot. 

_ I think I should’ve been a woman.  _ He was so pathetic, so fucking pathetic, he took his weird obsession with, his  _ fetish _ for dresses and high-heels, and based his whole life around it! 

_ “I think I’m like you.” _

_ Hide shrugged. “Genderfucked?”  _

_ Yoshiki took a drag of  _ ~~_ her _ ~~ _ his cigarette. “No, not exactly.”  _ ~~_ They _ ~~ _ He fixed his gaze away from Hide’s eyes.  _

_ “How ‘not exactly’?” _

_ “It’s less “I don’t want to be a man” and more “I want to be like a woman”. I’m not a transvestite or anything, I just…” _

_ “Just what?” Hide turned to look at Yoshiki.  _

_ “I’d rather be  _ anything _ than this.”  _

Hide was better. He was still a faggot, with his long hair and his shitty makeup and that whole  _ I’m not a man, I’m not a man, I’m a goddamn astral hermaphrodite  _ shtick, but he knew it was just a  _ shtick,  _ just a piece of performance art that he gave up when he got older, got a real job, and it was so, so  _ utterly _ ridiculous. No one could take it seriously, the idea that he was a man and a woman and,  _ what did he call it?  _

_ Ah, “everything and nothing at the same time.”  _

Yoshiki didn’t have that excuse. His fetish, his stupid, stupid fetish that younger him insisted on plastering everywhere was so damn  _ faggoty _ , so blatantly- 

He doesn’t let himself finish that thought.  _ Well, it’s not like I have a  _ problem  _ with that kind of shit, I was just wrong. So fucking wrong, and now I can’t even look at myself in the mirror without puking. Fuck, I need to get laid. Or drink. Or something.  _

Yoshiki grabs his phone off of the nightstand, turning it over in his hand.  _ Woman or man, woman or man?  _ He pictured the image of a woman bending over him (busty, blonde, young,  _ feminine and pretty with long eyelashes and red lipstick and a bright smile and heavy purple eyeshadow-)  _

He digs his fingernails into his palm.  _ Not that. Fuck that.  _

Out of nowhere, his phone buzzes.  _ Fuck!  _ Yoshiki drops it on the floor. Bending over, he squints at the glowing screen. 

_ Hide.  _

He feels like throwing up.  _ Why the hell is he calling me  _ now,  _ after four fucking years? God, I hate that bitch.  _ As if in contrast to his thoughts, a series of images come into his head unbidden- his ex bending over him, those long sinful legs wrapped up in leather boots with heels sharp enough to kill a man, long, soft hair framing his high cheekbones and bright eyes lined with colorful makeup, soft lips on his collarbone and sharp nails on his back as Hide fucked him against the wall  _ pretty girl pretty girl you’re such a pretty girl  _

_ We weren’t even that compatible! We fought all the fucking time! Why does it hurt so much so much so much  _

and he wants to vomit out his guts, take them out and stab them on the wall

_ and Hide’s running his fingers through his hair with a smile and Yoshiki’s doing the same to  _ ~~_ himherthem _ ~~ _ , pink on  _ ~~_ blonde _ ~~ _ blond  _

and he’s stumbling his way into the kitchen at 3 am and opening the cabinet with shaking hands and he catches the sight of his face in the refrigerator door 

_ and he’s sitting in front of the mirror of his old apartment, eyeshadow and blush and lipstick trying to cover up the planes of his face and the length of his eyelashes and the shape of his cheeks _

and he’s sitting at the counter and his throat is burning as he grabs at his pant legs, searching for something  _ and Hide’s voice is ringing in his ears pretty girl pretty girl pretty girl pretty girl over and over again-  _

In the last moment of clarity Yoshiki has for the rest of the night, he takes out his phone, his fingers sliding over the screen about three times before he manages to navigate to his texts.  _ pretty girl pretty girl pretty girl  _ rings in his head as he types out a hurried angry text to Hide. 

He drops the phone before he can think twice about what he just sent,  _ pretty girl pretty girl such a pretty girl we’re both pretty girls here (but you’re the prettiest)  _ in a loop as he pours himself another glass. 

On the floor, the phone buzzes once more. Yoshiki glances at it.  _ Hide, Hide, fuck him, fuck him!  _ He kicks it under the couch. 

The phone doesn’t ring again for the rest of the night. 


End file.
